


Mourner's Shabbos

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, French Occupation, Gen, Historical AU, Jewish!Marius, Les Mis Across History, Mentioned Character Death, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:20:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> It’s certainly not his first Shabbos since he went into hiding, but it is the first he’s shared with others. It’s nice, in a strange way.</i>
</p><p>  <i>Marius leads the rest of the prayers quickly once she’s finished, the Hebrew stumbling out of his mouth as quietly as he can manage. It’s not so much leading as reciting for an audience, he thinks, but that audience is attentive and open. Fear still clenches at his heart though he knows the church is safe, and sweat still slicks his palms as he listens for a footstep, for a gunshot, for a soldier to drag him away.</i></p><p>  <i>He thanks God every day for his fortune, even though he’s not sure what he believes anymore. He figures it won’t hurt to have his bases covered. </i></p><p>It's Shabbos in Paris during the Occupation, but Marius is alive and with Cosette, so he supposes he should feel grateful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourner's Shabbos

**Author's Note:**

> I was a little overeager for the Les Mis Across History fest, so I'm posting early. I am Jewish, so I enjoyed making Marius Jewish, though the story is not exactly the happiest time period to be so. I'm probably horribly inaccurate, but I hope you enjoy!

The candles cast shadows against the damp cellar walls.  Marius pours a drop of wine in each glass at the table and wishes it was kosher, then banishes the thought. He is not in the position to turn away anything at all.

“Thank you for joining me tonight,” he says softly, smiling uncomfortably first at the kind bishop, then at Valjean, and finally settling on Cosette. She nods encouragingly, her eyes brighter than the flames.

“It is an honor,” Bishop Myriel responds. He has graciously provided their meager supper from his own rations and Marius can’t thank him enough. “I have not yet had the privilege of attending a Jewish Sabbath.”

Marius flushes to his ears and averts his eyes. “Well. It’s not going to be much,” he admits. “I don’t have much experience - I’m not a rabbi or anything and - well. Yes.” His grandfather had always led Shabbos at home, but now his grandfather is in America. Marius still refuses to believe he was foolish for not following, but that feeling is fading quickly.

“I’m sure it will be enlightening,” Valjean adds. “You will be a fine leader in the ceremony.”

Marius takes a deep breath and nods shakily, encouraged but unconfident. “Thank you. Um. So. Let’s start. Cosette?”

Cosette pushes back her chair and smoothes her skirt with her palms. She’s worn her best - they all have - but Marius feels horribly underdressed and foreign in his shabby, frayed shul suit and yarmulke.

“Correct me if I say something wrong,” Cosette says sternly, because she must know that Marius won’t, and then throws herself into the prayer, her hands cupped over her eyes. Marius is proud of her - he knows she’s spent days practicing this one prayer, studying the Hebrew letters she had coerced him into teaching her.

It’s certainly not his first Shabbos since he went into hiding, but it is the first he’s shared with others. It’s nice, in a strange way.

Marius leads the rest of the prayers quickly once she’s finished, the Hebrew stumbling out of his mouth as quietly as he can manage. It’s not so much leading as reciting for an audience, he thinks, but that audience is attentive and open. Fear still clenches at his heart though he knows the church is safe, and sweat still slicks his palms as he listens for a footstep, for a gunshot, for a soldier to drag him away.

He thanks God every day for his fortune, even though he’s not sure what he believes anymore. He figures it won’t hurt to have his bases covered.

He says the kiddush and Valjean offers to cut the loaf of bread – Marius doesn’t have the resources to make challah, and that’s too risky anyway - and then the bishop and Valjean and Cosette say grace and Marius responds “amen.” Valjean and Myriel smile at him with unease when he speaks, but say nothing. He supposes they think he has no place in their prayers, and they’d be right in thinking that.

The meal is quiet and quick in the damp, cold room. Marius wishes he could light another candle or two, or even the fire, but he fears that would break the Shabbos more than he’s already done. He could ask Cosette, but that feels dishonest. He’ll manage, anyway. It’s only one day out of the week, and he’s sure he’s a lot better off than he could be.

All too soon, Marius is piling up the empty dishes.

“I will take them. You shouldn’t have to clean them on your holy day.” Valjean doesn’t offer - he simply takes the pile and climbs the creaky stairs. The bishop thanks Marius again for the service and follows, wishing him a good night in his hiding hole.

Cosette stays, her smile fading in the flickering light. “You’ve been quiet,” she says, shifting so she sits beside him. Marius doesn’t respond. It’s too difficult. After a moment, she continues. “It is all right to mourn them, Marius.” She takes his hand and squeezes it tightly.

He closes his eyes and turns away. He knows it’s fine to mourn - it would be awful if he did not. What is not fine is that they died at all, that they died fighting a cause they could never hope to win. Is he not still in hiding? Is he still not in danger like the millions of others? “I just wish they had let me join them,” he says, carefully choosing his words, his mind flashing back to that cold, bitter night.

Enjolras had planned it flawlessly, Marius will admit. A rebellion, a revolt in the streets of Paris, just long enough for Cosette to sneak Marius out of his hiding space in the attic of the warehouse and into the bishop’s church. He had wanted to help, but Bahorel literally manhandled him away from the fight.

They bombed the street for him.

They were lined up and shot for him. Marius had seen the pictures in the newspaper. His only comfort is in that they weren’t brought to one of those hellish prison camps.

It was a flawless plan except that they’re dead now.

It’s selfish to think it was only for him, of course. They had begun this plan long ago, before Marius’s hiding place was endangered. Before Vel’d’Hiv. Before Combeferre was arrested as a political prisoner. Before Joly was expelled from medical school for being Jewish. Before the yellow stars. Before Eponine and her family arrived , Jewish refugees from Germany who had to flee yet again.  

But Marius cannot deny that they died because of him, and for nothing at all. What is his life in return for all of theirs?

There is sorrow in the gentle squeeze Cosette gives his hand. “I thank God every day that you are safe. Your friends are watching over us, I’m sure, and one day we will walk through the streets, hand in hand.”

Marius doesn’t know if he agrees, but he nods. “Will you stay with me?” he asks. “Just a little longer?” He knows it’s wrong to ask her to remain in this cold, dank room, but he longs for her company.

Cosette kisses his cheek. “Always.”

His siddur falls open to the correct page, its spine cracked and bent to it. The candlelight is dim but the fading letters are familiar as he runs his finger along the lines. It was a risk to retrieve the prayer book - it is even a risk to own it - but he is so grateful to Valjean for taking the danger in stride. Some days, it’s his only comfort.

Cosette is silent beside him, her head bowed in respect.

Marius takes a deep breath. “Yit-gadal v’yit-kadash sh’may raba,” he chants under his breath.

“Amen.”

Marius looks up and blinks at Cosette in surprise before throwing himself into the Mourners’ Kaddish again. It is technically not his right to read it – he is not their parent, nor their child, nor their spouse, but he feels like their brother, and he hopes that is enough.

The candles cast shadows against the walls of his hiding place and his friends are dead, but it is Shabbos and Cosette is near.

He supposes it’ll have to do for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed - feedback is great!


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